


This Rough Magic

by Marivan



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anthropology, Christmas Dinner, First Kiss, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Magic, Misunderstandings, Ocean, Science, Scientist Joe, Scotland, Scottish Folklore & Mythology, Scottish Myths, Selkie Nicky, Selkies, Soul-Searching, inadvertant marriage proposal, romcom vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28170927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marivan/pseuds/Marivan
Summary: When Joe came to Scotland to study the sea, he did not expect to also encounter a beautiful man claiming that A. he’s a selkie and B. they’re married because Joe picked up his scarf.It sounds like a fairy tale and that’s a problem. Because Joe’s a scientist. And selkies don’t exist.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 86
Kudos: 398





	This Rough Magic

Joe sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair in the library in town, staring at depth charts for the North Atlantic and thinking instead of _Al-Magreb_ , of home.

Everything there came from the ocean. The port, which had brought sustenance to his people since time immemorial, and brought colonizers to their shores for hundreds of years. The beaches, drawing holiday goers from Europe, and the waves, bringing world class surfers and their competitions.

Sitting on the wharf as a boy, Joe would sometimes hear the grizzled eel fishermen’s talk soften as they mentioned spotting a humpback whale with her calf. These were the hardest men Joe’d ever seen, who knew the ocean better than anyone, who spent long hours in small vessels for sometimes meager returns. Joe marveled that just the glimpse of a mother and baby was the thing which cracked that hard, brined exterior. Joe felt vindicated: the sea gives to us and the sea gives to the whales.

It was only later that Joe learned that humpbacks migrated south to warmer waters to breed and rear their babies, but that this came with a price. There were none of the tiny critters called plankton for them to eat off the coast of Africa and so humpback mothers starved themselves for months in order to give their offspring a fighting chance of survival in the frigid North Atlantic. Joe learned that the ocean was generous, but also that it was cruel. And from that day forward, he wanted to know everything he could about it.

And so he came to Scotland to university, to study those tiny creatures that breathed life into the biggest ones. He didn’t regret it, but damn it was cold.

He couldn’t deny that _Al-Magreb_ would be warm and bright and the ocean would glitter like gems of aquamarine and azure and it would be nice to be _home_. But until magic, or sufficiently advanced technology, allowed him to bend space and time to his will, he is here in Scotland, cross referencing depth charts and data from his most recent outing in the research vessel till his eyes roll back in his head.

Joe glances up when a man joins him at the other end of the table, on the other side, as per universal strangers-sharing-a table-in-the-library etiquette. The man’s profile is like something carved out of marble. Joe can’t help but notice the slope of his nose and the curl of his ear in light brown hair and the mole placed delicately between mouth and jaw.

Joe has finally pulled his eyes back to his laptop when an enormous book plunks onto the table, startling Joe with the sound and vibrations. Joe’s gaze is drawn back to his companion and this time he catches the man’s eyes. Joe notes that they are the grey-green of his favorite diatoms under the microscope. But it is more than the color that makes Joe’s gaze linger, even as the man ducks his head and murmurs an apology: those eyes look like they know the secrets of the ocean. The thought zings from Joe’s brain to his belly and sits there like molten mercury.

Joe can’t totally abandon his data, or at least the pretence of it; he wants to ogle this man, to consume and memorize every detail about him, but they’re in a library and Joe knows that that just isn’t done. So between pretending to stare at the numbers fuzzing together on his laptop, he sees the corner of the man’s lips curl up slightly as he reads. He sees him pull a fountain pen from his bag -- the man uses a fucking fountain pen, of course he does -- and notes how he holds the cap between his lips as he jots a quick note. He sees strong hands stroke the book’s cut pages before turning each one by the corner.

“Umm excuse me?”

Fuck. Joe’s eyes flick up to that stunning ocean green and then quickly away. “I’m sorry,” Joe mutters. “You have-- uh-- nice hands?”

“Thank you?” There’s a rumble to the man’s voice, a resonance, and an accent he can’t quite place.

Embarrassment and the thrill of something that might bloom into attraction are all that remain inside Joe’s brain and right now the embarrassment is winning. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’ll just--” Joe motions to his laptop and makes a grand gesture of placing his sole attention on the screen. He does not sneak any more glances at the man at the other end of the table. But the part of his brain that does science, that trusty, reliable part of himself has fled. The more he stares at the same screen the more the back of his neck and the tips of his ears heat up. He lasts only a few more minutes before he slams his laptop closed and gets up to leave.

The man glances at him and says, “I hope you’re not leaving on my account.”

“No. No,” Joe says with an awkward laugh. “I’ve got a… thing.”

Joe does not in fact have a thing.

And if Joe gets back to his empty flat and rubs one out in the shower thinking about certain eyes and lips and hands, well, with his flatmates all away for the holiday, there is literally nobody else to know.

By the next evening, Joe is going stir crazy inside his flat. He decides to wander down the high street hoping he’ll find a pub that’s open on Christmas Eve. When he does, he steps into the warm gloom and takes a seat at the bar.

Idly, Joe wishes there were 24-hour diners here like he’d found in New York when he visited last year. The checkered linoleum floor and bright white light and bottomless coffees and a waitress calling him “hon” would be exactly the antidote to his current listlessness. Instead, there are a few other lonely souls scattered on stools and in booths around the bar and, if not exactly what he wants, it still beats another night alone on his sofa.

Joe learned almost immediately upon his arrival to uni that if he was going to socialize, he was going to spend time in pubs. And that meant he either was going to give up part of his observance or learn how to order a damn shirley temple without feeling like a fool. So, tonight he orders his shirley temple and doesn’t let the barkeeps “you sure, mate?” get under his skin. The brightness of the grenadine and fizz of the soda on his tongue always bring him a small slice of joy. He might be homesick, but this, at least, is nice.

A snort, indignant, discontented, coming from the person a couple of stools down, rattles Joe from his reverie. His head snaps to the sound and before his brain has time to catch up to his mouth, he’s saying, “It’s _you_.”

The other man’s eyes -- just as stunning and just as beautifully grey-green in the dim light of the pub -- snap to his and Joe’s hand flies up to cover his mouth, as if doing so could reel the words back in, make them unheard. Joe braces for another sound of disgust, a cold shoulder, an eye roll, but instead the man’s mouth breaks into a what is almost a grin and he says, without a touch of malice, “From the library, right?”

Joe nods, not trusting his voice.

The man’s smile widens and his eyes soften and he says, “It seems fate has thrown us in each other’s paths, no?”

“I’m sorry,” Joe says, and then, only then, he notes the book splayed open on the bar in front of the other man, and kicks himself and redoubles his apologies. “You were reading and I interrupted you. Again. And I’ll just…”

The man closes the book, his eyes never leaving Joe’s. “It was starting to annoy me anyways. But the paper’s don’t write themselves.” He pauses and then extends his hand. “I’m Nicky.”

“Joe.”

“Nice to finally meet you, Joe.”

And then they’re off. Joe learns that Nicky’s also a university student, studying literature, “technically, but I’m actually more interested folklore,” that, though Nicky’s family is here in Scotland, he’s alone for Christmas because things are strained between them, that Nicky too grew up by the ocean and loves nothing more than the sounds of spray on Scotland’s craggy shores. They agree that the whole idea of Loch Ness monster is ridiculous and that salmon is best when it’s been smoked. Joe thinks that, for all the time he spends aboard boats at sea, he could drown in Nicky’s attention, in his careful questions and wry smiles and light teasing.

What feels like minutes, but must be hours later, the barkeep cuts in to say, “Closing in a mo’. Time to pay up, lads.” Joe fishes out his credit card and Nicky plunks down a couple of bills and then it’s time to get themselves situated to brave the Highland winter once again. Both reach underneath the bar to grab their coats off the hooks and as Joe’s standing up he sees something slip from Nicky’s grasp, a scarf maybe. Joe reaches down and picks it up and the object in his hand is, he supposes, a scarf or sorts, but it looks like an animal skin, ragged around the edges and rolled into a log so it might sit around the wearer’s neck. In the low light of the pub, it shines a lustrous grey, dotted with darker spots. It feels soft but slightly oily to the touch, almost like sheep’s wool. It is beautiful.

And then Joe notices that Nicky has frozen in place, that his eyes are wide with panic and terror, that he looks like he’s about to cry or beg or scream. Joe hastily pushes the scarf in Nicky’s direction. “Here,” he says. “I was just--” his words seem small and ineffectual given the magnitude of Nicky’s response, but he continues anyways, “trying to be helpful.”

If it’s possible, Nicky’s eyes widen even more, but the fear is gone, replaced with something else: surprise, maybe? He snatches the scarf back and pulls it around his shoulders and takes a deep steadying breath. He turns away from Joe and takes two steps towards the door and then turns back to Joe and takes two steps back.

“Joe,” he says, and his voice practically cracks with emotion over the single syllable of his name. Nicky’s hand shoots out and clutches at Joe’s arm. “Joe, I have to go, but please, _please_ promise me you’ll meet me on the beach by the ferry terminal first thing tomorrow morning.” Joe’s eyes search Nicky’s face for any clue what might be happening, but there’s nothing, nothing except desperation. “I--” Nicky says and then shakes his head slightly before squeezing his fingers more tightly into Joe’s arm and starting again, “If tonight meant anything to you, anything at all, just please, _please_ be there?”

“I’ll be there.” Joe doesn’t know what the hell’s gotten into Nicky, doesn’t have any clue what’s going on at all, but the man is beautiful and charming and he’s begging and so Joe says yes. He doesn’t have to be at Andy’s till the evening anyways.

Joe finds Nicky waiting for him the next morning as his boots crunch against the stones of the beach. He draws up next to Nicky, shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the water. “Hey,” he says, “you okay?”

Nicky turns to look at him. Joe feels Nicky’s eyes raking over his face. “I didn’t think you’d come.” It’s a statement, but Joe doesn’t follow. He parts his lips to start a response, but Nicky cuts him off before he can quite arrange the right words. “I didn’t know if you’d recognized it. You’re not from here, but that doesn’t mean as much as it once did.” Nicky takes a deep, steadying breath, and turns his whole body to face Joe. Joe’s eyes track Nicky’s hand moving in his coat pocket, pulling out a small black box. Joe feels his brow crease with confusion. Nicky pulls the box up in between them and cracks it open. Nestled inside is an old-looking silver ring, not tarnished but clearly well-worn. On closer inspection, Joe sees that it is a thin, flat piece of silver coiled three times. His mind whirls.

“Is this--?”

Nicky nods. “We should get married by human customs as well.”

Joe’s mouth drops open. “Is this some kind of joke?” And then Nicky’s words actually penetrate his brain. “Wait, _human_ customs? What the--” Nicky grabs at Joe’s arm, stopping him in his tracks. There is no sign of mirth in his eyes, but this is too weird to be real. Joe is waiting for the other shoe to drop, for this to be a game or a dare or _something_.

“I’m selkie,” Nicky says, softly, as earnest as Joe’s ever heard him.

“Selkies are-- are just stories. Fairy tales. They’re not _real_ , Nicky.”

Nicky closes his eyes, ducks his head. “Joe. Tell me what happened last night.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No, I do. I just need you to hear it in your own words.”

This must be the strangest conversation Joe has ever had. “Okay,” he begins slowly. “Well I walked into a pub on the high street and I sat down and ordered a drink and sitting next to me happened to be this guy -- this cute guy -- that I had happened to run into at the library the day before…” At this Nicky glances up at Joe. His gaze, Joe is _pretty_ sure, lingers on Joe’s lips. There is the hint of a smile at the corner of Nicky’s mouth, but he is still clutching Joe’s arm ferociously, keeping Joe still and anchored.

“Go on,” he says.

“And then, we hit it off -- or at least I had a really nice time, and I think you did too -- and then the barman kicked us out and, as we were getting ready to leave, you dropped your scarf and I picked it up for you.” Joe scrubs a hand down his face. “And then, I don’t know, Nicky, because the guy I’d been kind of flirting with all evening, who seemed at least a little into it, was panicking and running away and begging to meet me in the morning and I--”

“It’s not a scarf.”

“I don’t--”

“It’s my skin.”

“What the--” and then, once again, Joe’s brain catches up to his mouth. He thinks about the feel of the whatever-it-was in his hands, the lustrousness and the oils and it felt familiar because it was a “seal skin?”

“Selkie skin. And if a human--”

“--steals a selkie skin they compel the selkie to become their lover.”

“Yes.”

“So I--?”

“No, you gave it back.”

“You’re free then.”

“No, ah, it means that I’m not your prisoner because you trust me to be faithful to you. That we’re married, basically.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Joe breaths. Nicky huffs a small laugh at that. But then the wheels in Joe’s brain turn a little bit more and he says, “No, no way. There are two primary species of seals in Scottish waters, _Phoca vitulina vitulina_ , a subspecies of Harbor seals, and _Halichoerus grypus_ , the grey seal.” Joe sees the expression on Nicky’s face fall, but he can’t stop himself. “I’m a scientist, Nicky. A _marine_ scientist. Selkies don’t exist. There isn’t a third species of seal we’ve just happened to overlook in the concerted efforts to save and protect seal habitat and genetic diversity in Scotland for the last 30 years.”

Nicky sighs, lets go of Joe’s arm. Joe can hardly tell what is playing across Nicky’s face but there’s a storm of some kind happening behind the green expanse of his eyes.

“Joe,” he says, gently, as how you might speak to a spooked animal. “Did you like the person you met last night?”

“Very much.”

“If _things_ hadn’t happened the way they did, would you have been interested in, let’s call it, a second date?”

Joe’s mind briefly drifts to orgasm he gave himself in the shower two days ago, even before he’d really met the man. “Yes,” he says, and admits to himself that the man is beautiful and sexy and funny and smart… and also thinks he’s a magical creature and that they’re married, which is insane.

“I like you, too.” Nicky is silent for a moment and then he continues, “and I know you probably think I’m crazy right now.”

Joe nods, and he sees pain twist across Nicky’s face and he sort of hates that he knows he’s the cause.

“Can you do just two things for me?” Nicky asks, and there is desperation once again in his voice. “Can you meet me here again tomorrow? And can you at least wear the ring until you do?”

“What if I say no?”

“I would be forced to remain chaste and at sea until your death.” He says it as if it is the most simple, natural thing in the world, but Nicky’s shoulders sag and his whole demeanor folds in upon itself, terrified and resigned that this will be his fate. Joe considers for a wild instance that maybe Nicky is telling the truth.

“Sure, I can do those things.”

The relief floods Nicky immediately. He opens up the box again and slides the coiled ring onto the 4th finger of Joe’s right hand. Nicky murmurs, “thank you.”

Once the ring is seated, they both take a step back. “Afternoon tomorrow, okay?” Joe agrees. Nicky inclines his head slightly towards him and then turns on his heel and he’s gone.

Joe stands there staring out at the water, listening to the sea birds fuss, and running his fingers over the unfamiliar grooved surfaces of the ring, for a long, long time.

“Welcome to Infidel’s Christmas!” Andy, his mentor and dissertation advisor, cries as she opens the door for him that evening.

“Don’t say that so loudly, dear,” comes another voice from further inside the house. That would be Quynh, Andy’s wife and world-renowned anthropologist. “We could really do without the witch hunts and pitchforks tonight.”

Joe barks out a laugh as Andy takes his coat. She wraps him in a quick hug and then she ushers him into their living room. “Quynh’s just finishing up dinner.”

“Curry?”

“Of course.”

“I mean, fuck colonialism,” Joe says, “but that smells damn good.” Laughter spills from the kitchen and Andy snorts and rolls her eyes. Joe grins.

“How’s the data prep coming?” asks Andy. His advisor wants to talk shop? Yes, please, this might be the first time he hasn’t felt wrong-footed all day. Joe settles a little deeper into the sofa and feels the pressure he’s been carrying in his shoulders ease just a bit.

“It’s slow going, but I think I’m making progress getting everything ready to run the regressions.”

Andy nods. “This is nobody’s favorite part of doing science. Especially not when there are boats and microscopes and other fun toys at our disposal.”

Joe laughs and ducks his head. “I just really want the data to work out. Like every boat captain in Argyle knows anecdotally that whale migration patterns are shifting due to climate change and arctic thawing. And that implies other alterations in the food chain and I want to be able to prove some of these things are at least correlated and--”

“And if you didn’t feel that way, Joe, you’d be in the wrong field.” Andy rarely smiles but right now he thinks the corners of her mouth might be quirking up with pride. Christmas must be making her soft. “Mmm this reminds me,” she continues a moment later, “there’s new migration research in the Journal of Marine Science you might want to look at.”

Just then, Quynh bursts forth from the kitchen. “Alright my darling wife,” she says, setting a platter down on the dining table, “enough science talk for tonight. Dinner is served.”

Quynh might be an expert in Scottish cultural objects, but her personal distaste for traditional Scottish cuisine couldn’t be more apparent. The curry is fragrant and colorful, setting the back of Joe’s throat aflame. Quynh’s spices are not the same as those that the merchants still peddle in the _souq_ back home, but they are sharp and aromatic in a way that is comforting nevertheless. Joe floats along in the conversation. Smart and quick-witted and familiar with each other from years spent together, Quynh and Andy converse like a tennis match where the rallys go on and on. Joe generally can’t get a word in edgewise, unless one of them summons him as back-up for their position or poses him a question directly.

Joe idly wonders if this is what it would be like with Nicky, given enough time and trust. He wonders if Nicky would dance off to the bookshelves and pull out a well thumbed tome, flipping immediately to the right page to prove his point. He wonders if he would look at Nicky with the same sort of deep affection as Andy gives to Quynh when she does exactly that in the middle of dinner. He wonders most of all what it would be like to make a home with Nicky: is he a shoes off by the door person? Does he pick up after himself or leave bits of domestic detritus in his wake? Does he do the dishes immediately or let them build up? He realizes that there is so much he doesn’t know about Nicky and it sends a tremor of apprehension down his spine.

“Joe,” he hears his name and snaps back to the present. “Is everything alright?”

“Quynh, what do you know about selkies?” He asks before he can stop himself.

“Quite a lot,” she says and then Quynh’s eyes flick down to where the fingers of his right hand are curled around his fork. “Does your question have anything to do with the honest-to-god 7th century Highland silver spiral finger ring you’re wearing?”

Joe’s whole body goes rigid and the metal of the ring suddenly feels like it is burning through his skin. There were so many words in that sentence and he’s struggling to make sense of them, but the gist is that Quynh -- Quynh who grew up on her father’s archaeological digs on Orkney, who is one of the world’s leading experts on Scottish cultural artifacts -- recognizes the ring Nicky gave him.

A croaked, “maybe,” is all he can manage.

“A selkie gave that to you?” Quynh’s eyes bore into his.

“I mean, I know it sounds ridiculous, selkies aren’t real,” he hears Andy’s whispered _“no shit,”_ continues on anyways, “but yeah? He seemed really serious and he had a seal skin and everything and…”

“And you took his skin and then gave it back to him and the next time he saw you he gave you that ring.”

Joe’s jaw falls open. “Yeah. How did you…?”

But Quynh is clearly on a roll, the puzzle pieces furiously slotting into place in her mind. “It really _is_ Christmas.” And then she is bounding over to the bookshelves and murmuring delightedly to herself.

Andy mouths an apology at him for her wife’s behavior and Joe shrugs. It’s not like this day can get any stranger.

When Quynh sits back down with a stack of books several minutes later, she begins with, “I’m not a folklorist, but…” and their dinners are effectively abandoned. Quynh begins a discussion of how seal skins were hugely valuable to people living in cold, wet environments, but that compared to their counterparts across the arctic and near arctic, the Scots were bad at hunting seals. “There’s a reason,” Quynh says, “that the Shetlands are famous for their sheep and not their seal skins.” So seal skins were valuable and seal skins were scarce and that is the perfect breeding ground for myth. All this is further underscored by the othering nature of the tales: those who steal a seal skin are selfish, cruel, wardens of a prison of their own making. Survival in the Highlands meant community and clan; it had no room for individualism.

“Sound reasoning,” Andy cuts in, “but Joe got that ring from a real person, who claims he’s a real selkie.”

“Yes indeed,” Quynh flips open a book and her grin practically splits her face in half. “See, there are two separate folklorists who recorded two different women, one from Orkney, one from the Highlands, telling practically the same story, one that is remarkably similar to yours, Joe.”

She pushes the book at Joe, but the words are all tangled together on the page and he can’t really read and listen to Quynh at the same time.

“If we view the selkie myth as a way to justify and condemn the hoarding of a precious resource, then these two stories make absolutely no sense, because in both of them the woman gives up her seal skin for a coiled silver ring. Highlanders were early silver workers, yes, but a finger ring has far less survival value than a seal skin. These two stories have never fit into the commonly held views around why the selkie folklore developed the way it did in the Highlands and Northern Isles. But…”

“But?”

“Well, Sherlock Holmes said that _when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth_.”

Andy jumps to her feet. “There is absolutely no scientific basis for this. None whatsoever.”

“How do you explain it then?” Quynh’s chin is jutted out, challenging, defiant.

“Coincidence? Insanity?”

“Pah.”

“Hold on,” Joe breaks in, waving his hands to settle the two women. “Quynh, you’re saying you believe that Nicky is _actually_ a selkie?”

“It’s the only explanation that fits” she exclaims. “What possible reason could he have to lie to you? And why else give a complete stranger authentic medieval Scottish silver that should probably be in a museum collection?”

Andy has some kind of retort to that, but Joe’s still stuck on Quynh’s words. His hands creep up to cover his ears and he rests his forehead on the table. _What possible reason could he have to lie to you?_ That was the crux of it, really. Joe kept waiting, waiting for someone to jump out and scream “punk’d” at him, but it hadn’t happened yet, and, Joe admitted, likely wasn’t going to.

He remembers Nicky’s words from the end of their conversation earlier: the shy _I like you, too_ and the pain on his face when he said that, with one word from Joe, he would be chaste and alone and unloved for years upon years. Either Nicky deserved a fucking Oscar for that performance or he wasn’t lying. And that was terrifying

Quynh had academic-ed her way into believing Nicky was a selkie, with quick story-telling and strong argumentation. But this was Joe’s _life_ and he wasn’t sure if he could live with Nicky, be Nicky’s, and still be a scientist, a rationalist. What it came down to, he realized, is that he was scared of losing himself.

With only light ribbing from Andy, Joe had taken home an armful of books on Scottish folklore from Quynh’s selves. Nicky hadn’t specified when he would meet Joe the next day but, either for himself or for Nicky, he feels drawn to the water.

Scotland has decided to put her best foot forward today. The sun shines from a clear sky and bounces off the water of the bay and casts everything in its radiance. Joe parks himself on a bench facing the water, pulls a blanket around his shoulders and begins to read.

He stays that way for hours. He eats his lunch in the company of a couple of curious sea birds who wisely haunt the ferry’s churning wake. He finishes a chapter in one of the books and cracks open another.

As the sun sets over the bay, Nicky drops down onto the bench beside him.

“You know,” Nicky says, glancing at the volume in Joe’s hands, “that the Scottish Antiquary is absolute bullshit, right?”

“I was gathering that, yes. Ah, here’s a good one: _Indeed, to see a bevy of these lovely creatures, their seal skins doffed, disporting themselves on a sea-side rock, was enough to fire with admiration the coldest heart_.”

Nicky snorts. He looks up at Joe through his lashes and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s--”

“Utterly ridiculous. This is Scotland! Why would anyone ever hang out naked on a rock? It is much too cold and unlikely to be sunny.”

This earns another snort from Nicky and Joe’s heart flutters in his chest. “That was not what I was going to say, but I cannot fault your logic.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They lapse into silence, each staring out at the horizon, listening to the water lap against the pier. Joe feels like they are both poised on a precipice, searching for the right words, knowing the wrong ones mean a long fall and soul-shattering impact.

Joe senses more than sees Nicky’s mouth open and decides he can’t wait any longer, damn the consequences.

“I like you, Nicky.” Joe feels Nicky’s eyes on him, piercing, searching. “And I’ve thought about everything you said yesterday -- a lot actually -- and I’m a scientist and I’ll always be a scientist and so I don’t-- I can’t-- believe you, but I also can’t come up with any reason why you would lie to me and then give me this…” Joe holds up his right hand, the one with the silver ring still settled on his finger. Nicky brings his own hand up and grasps at Joe’s, his thumb running over the bands and grooves of the ring. It is such a small gesture, but Joe feels the tenderness in Nicky’s light touch and he aches for him to his very core.

This here is the point of no return, is the moment to step off the cliff and hope this man is there to catch him. Joe takes a deep breath and intertwines their fingers together. “I guess-- I think what I’m trying to say is that I’m not ready to walk into the _masjid_ and ask for the imam’s blessing today or tomorrow or even any time soon, but I want to try, Nicky, and I want to see what can grow.”

Nicky squeezes his hand. “A long engagement then. Like in the old romance novels.”

“Yeah. Something like that.” Joe sees the muscles of Nicky’s jaw relax and his mouth curve into a smile and his eyes practically glow. Contentment settles around his own shoulders and he rubs his thumb over the back of Nicky’s broad, capable hand.

“Joe, can I kiss you?” Nicky’s voice is low, almost purring.

Joe can barely breathe “yes,” before Nicky’s lips are crashing against his and Nicky’s hands are on his face and his neck and Nicky’s nose is pressed against his cheek. There are sparks in his belly and fire against his palms on Nicky’s shoulders and back and waist and Joe feels consumed by the time they break apart.

Their foreheads still rest together and Nicky murmurs, “That was…” and before he can finish his thought, Joe agrees and the breath of their shared laughter warms each other’s cheeks.

There is a soft _awroo awroo_ from a seal in the harbor’s waters, and Nicky says, “my brother is telling us to get a room.”

“No way.” Joe pulls back, eyes wide, before he catches the quirk of Nicky’s mouth and the mirth twinkling in his eyes. “That was a joke.”

“It was.” And Joe can’t help it, he throws his head back and absolutely howls with laughter. Selkie or no, Nicky can kiss like he means it one moment and delight Joe down to his very toes the next and Joe thinks maybe this isn’t a half-bad way to start this thing between them, after all.

After a few more minutes of staring into Nicky’s eyes like a fool, Joe inhales and steadies himself and says, “Eventually you’re going to have to help me understand this whole selkie thing.”

“It’s not like science, Joe. It can’t, really, be understood. It just... is.”

Joe thinks about the ocean floor and the Mariana trench and the milky seas effect and red tides and giant squid and Blue whales. He realizes that, despite science’s best efforts, the ocean will always contain mysteries.

And he realizes that the ocean, in her infinite generosity and cruelty, is offering him this wise, beautiful man. He would be a fool to refuse.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this tumblr post.](https://kurara-black-blog.tumblr.com/post/170166549083/howtobangyourmonster-oops-dropped-your-coat) Seriously, it will make you laugh!
> 
> The ring Nicky gives Joe is based off of these two examples ([one](https://www.nms.ac.uk/explore-our-collections/collection-search-results/finger-ring/132633) and [two](https://www.nms.ac.uk/explore-our-collections/collection-search-results/finger-ring/143431)) in the collection of the National Museums of Scotland. This style of ring’s connection to selkie folklore is, as far as I know, entirely my invention.
> 
> The book Joe reads from at the end of the story, [The Scottish Antiquary](https://books.google.com/books?id=8EYGSax2tSgC&pg=PA172#v=onepage&q&f=false), is a real 19th Century version of the modern academic journal. What passes for scholarship is, quite frankly, laughable and the bit about Orkney Selkie folklore is probably just about as horny on main as 19th century british gentlemen got in public.
> 
> Much much love to the crew at Disaster Immortals for finding the tumblr post, suggesting Joe/Nicky fic, and the general screaming and encouragement.


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